I never saw this one, myself, Hero said.
Paz stared down at the photo of a Pol neither of them had ever met.The Pol in that photo probably wasn’t too much older than the age Paz had been, when she’d first fallen in love with him.
Then Paz began laughing, covering her face and shaking her head, her shoulders alive with tremors. The dry crinkle around her eyes let Hero know that Paz was indeed laughing, not crying, but still Hero was afraid that her gesture had somehow torn apart the frail gauze of sympathy they’d wrapped around each other. But when Paz finally raised her head, she only looked at Hero and said, the words bubbling out helplessly:
Nimang. Birthday ko ngayon.
Hero heard herself shout: Anía?!
I’m forty. Forty and two minutes.
She met Hero’s gaze then started laughing again, her hands curling around the photocopy of Pol’s certificate, her fingers crumpling his face so the features were unrecognizable; more unrecognizable than they already were.
You’re—Hero stopped, squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again.
When she opened them, Paz had stopped laughing, but she was still smiling; a hopeless, Salvador del Mundo smile.
She said, We have Beefeaters in the cupboard. She pointed, but Hero was already standing up.
Hero dragged her chair with her, brought it to the cupboard, stood on the seat and opened a cupboard door to find the bottles of Beefeaters and Tanduay stuffed in the back. Pol hadn’t finished everything on the night of receiving his citizenship, and sure enough there was a half-empty bottle of gin behind a large sack of gray-green mung beans.
She pulled the bottle out, cradling it in her arms. Paz was already pulling out two fresh glasses from the dishwasher and Hero filled each one with enough gin that it was difficult to tell the difference between the glasses of gin and the glasses of water.
You know I never drank Beefeaters before, Paz said. When I was a kid I thought it was fancy.
She took a surprisingly large swig from her glass, and at the look of shock on Hero’s face, laughed. I’ll have to call in sick tomorrow, she said unconvincingly.
You have to eat pancit also, Hero said when they’d downed the third glass, realizing Paz hadn’t touched the other plate full of it. No, I’m, Paz held a hand up but Hero pushed the plate in front of her, put the fork in her hand, wouldn’t take her eyes off of her until Paz took one small bite, then another larger one, slurping the glassy noodles into her mouth before holding her hand up, indicating she couldn’t take any more.
Hero made herself a plate and started eating the pancit, too, and just the sight of her eating seemed to push Paz to take a few more bites on her own, each of them chasing every few bites with another big sip from the Beefeaters, which Hero made sure to refill whenever the glasses seemed less than half full. When they were both finished eating, they sat there, palpably embarrassed, too shy to put down their utensils.
Naksel, Paz said to herself, inexplicably. Somehow she seemed far more sober than Hero, despite having drunk much more, despite being much shorter. Hero would never have thought of her as someone with a high alcohol tolerance.
When Hero looked at her in dull, unfocused confusion, Paz said, patting her belly: That’s what busog means in Pangasinan. Full. Naksel.
Oh, Hero said. Naksel. Yes. I remember. She reflected for a moment, her thoughts syrup-slow. I also know the word morhon.
Paz nodded. That’s what we call embutido. You can also say morcon.
And gali-la.
Tayo na. Let’s go.
Ambetel.
Cold, Paz nodded. Malamig. She rubbed at the sides of her arms, feigning. Ambetel was the word Roni sometimes used when they would leave the warmth of the restaurant and have to brace against the crisp air, Roni’s small trembling body coming up to nestle into Hero’s warmth. Hero had quietly let her do that for months, before finally asking her what the word meant. As usual, Roni had looked at her like she was a complete idiot, then told her.
Now Hero nodded at Paz, chest constricted, and feigned like she was shivering, too. Ambetel.
The same shy, pinkish silence came over them. Paz started to smooth out Pol’s picture with her thumb and instead of watching her, Hero picked up the bottle of Beefeaters and spilled it, more than poured it, into their glasses again. The next morning, Paz left for work at seven o’clock, just half an hour later than usual. Hero slept until noon, arrived at the restaurant with her head splitting open, straight into the arms of Rosalyn’s squawking.
* * *
At the beginning of December, Hero went with Rosalyn, Jaime, Rochelle, and Gani to see Maricris’s group perform at the Santa Clara County Christmas Fair, over in the fairgrounds in San Jose. Hero approached the event with a mild feeling of dread, only to discover that not five minutes after stepping foot onto the grounds, she was enjoying herself—she liked the rides, the carousel, the Ferris wheel, the kids running around with their faces painted clutching at cotton candy, the smell of animal shit, the long stretches of patchy, dried-out grass where families had splayed out their picnic blankets, people shivering in puffy jackets while manning grills small and large, lazily intrepid and foolhardy in the way that Hero knew enough now to recognize as Californian. Rosalyn took exaggerated delight in Hero’s unexpected but undisguised pleasure, offering to get her cotton candy, to win a big stuffed animal for her at the shooting gallery. What about like a big tiger. As big as me, Rosalyn said. I already have one of those, Hero replied.
Maricris’s group was set to perform sometime around three o’clock in the afternoon, which meant Rosalyn had to regroup with them at one, to start doing their makeup. They’d changed their original name from 5ive Senses to Just Harmony, after one of the five girls left the group, having caved under her parents’ pressure to go to nursing school. They weren’t the headliners; that was a white rock musician Hero had never heard of, and in whom the others showed no interest. The plan was to go back to either Maricris’s house or Rosalyn’s after the performance.
It was the first time Hero had ever seen Maricris perform—Rosalyn had invited her to their performances enough times, but somehow she’d always found her way out of it. She didn’t know what she thought about the music, either saccharine ballads or upbeat tracks with a tinny drumbeat; she felt embarrassed and protective, seeing Maricris on stage in tight Lycra pants and Rosalyn’s makeup. She thought of Rosalyn’s old, put-away desire to be an actress, which she only talked about in bed, and then, rarely, even less than she talked about her relationship with Jaime. Would she have been able to be onstage—well, not quite like this, Hero supposed. Not as a singer. But still, Hero imagined it: sitting in a theater, watching Rosalyn lit up from all sides, being someone else for a couple of hours. The thought unsettled her, but she didn’t hate the unsettling.
Next to her, Jaime and Rochelle were cheesing at her and exaggeratedly tapping their right feet on the ground—mimicking her, Hero realized, when she looked down at her own foot and saw it tapping on its own.
Rosalyn leaned in and shouted into Hero’s ear, I really wanna kiss you right now. Then she pulled back, one corner of her mouth lifted in an almost-smile. Said more quietly: I won’t, though, don’t worry.
Hero looked at her, then tilted her chin downward in wordless invitation. Rosalyn stared, didn’t move. Hero rolled her eyes, leaned over, and ate the twist of disbelief off Rosalyn’s mouth, ate up the little gasp that followed, and didn’t pull back when she heard, distantly, a few men starting to cheer. There was a solid, immovable weight in Hero’s chest, something that resembled a burden, but that wasn’t what it was.
She was having fun. She was having fun, there in the crowd; she was having fun, there in the line for corn dogs and funnel cake; she was having fun, in the backseat of Jaime’s van and listening to Rosalyn and Rochelle debate the finer points of whether or not Just Harmony’s lead singer was good enough to f
ront the group and wouldn’t Maricris be a better choice, if she just came out of her shell a bit more onstage. She was having fun, hours later sitting at a folding table in Rosalyn’s garage and dealing out the cards for pusoy dos; she was having fun, lifting her hand to accept the beer that Jaime was putting in it. She was having fun. Soon enough, they would see each other again. Maybe for two weeks at a time. Paz hadn’t confirmed anything, but maybe Pol would bring her back to visit this Christmas and Hero would once again cart her over to Rosalyn’s for Noche Buena and they would play cards like they had before, Hero drunk and confident on a folding chair, a small flame of life just behind her.
Hero. Hero. Hero, someone was saying.
Hero looked up. Rosalyn was staring at her.
Can you help me with some food inside. Hero put the cards down, stood on numb legs, and followed Rosalyn.
What do you need help with, Hero said, looking around, and Rosalyn pushed Hero down into one of the kitchen chairs.
You keep spacing out.
Hero took a breath through her nose. I’m fine.
Let’s call her.
Hero said, Who. Rosalyn gave her a look.
Wait here, she said, leaving for the direction of her bedroom.
Hero stared down at the phone, then at the international phone card that Rosalyn tossed down on top of it when she returned. It was the same brand that Hero had been buying.
Hero looked back up at Rosalyn, who tilted her head. You think Ruby and I don’t talk?
Not now, Hero said. Let’s do it later.
I don’t wanna do it later. I don’t wanna have to look at your face like this for the rest of the night, I’ve been looking at it for weeks already. Just call her like you’ve been doing.
I haven’t been calling her, Hero said. I’ve been calling my aunt in Caloocan.
Hero squeezed the card in her hands, trying to draw some pain into her palms, but the hands had been better for weeks, either Adela’s doing or the thumb exercises, so she had to soldier on, unmoored.
I don’t know how to reach them. Pol. I don’t know where they are. My aunt won’t tell me. She’s protecting—it’s complicated.
Oh, it’s complicated? Okay, never mind, then, Rosalyn said sourly.
It’s three o’clock in the afternoon over there right now, my aunt won’t be back from work.
Then leave a damn message!
Hero looked down at the phone. Rosalyn picked the receiver up and put it into Hero’s hands.
I probably won’t even get through, Hero said, one last protest. Focus, Rosalyn ordered.
A man picked up—Soly’s boyfriend, or one of her sons, maybe he’d already gone through puberty and his voice had dropped since Hero had been away.
You’re looking for Soly?
Hero answered in the affirmative, and waited for him to tell her she wasn’t home yet and she should call back later, but instead he said: She’s right here, hold on.
Hello?
Tita Soly, Hero said, stuttering at her own surprise, and at Rosalyn in front of her, back straightening with interest.
Nimang, Soly said, sounding exhausted.
I want to know where Roni is.
Nimang, I told you—
I’ll keep calling until you tell me how I can talk to her.
I don’t know either, Nimang.
I don’t believe you, Hero said, then watched Rosalyn turn her attention to someone in the doorway to the garage, shushing them, then getting up from out of her chair to bring what they apparently had come into the kitchen for, a tray of barbecue.
Soly was saying, You don’t have to believe me. It’s true.
Then you at least know someone who does know where they are. In Manila? Or in Vigan? With Tito Mel’s kids? Tita Orang’s? Tita Ticay’s?
Soly went quiet. Hero parsed the silence, and felt the fist in her ribs.
Hero asked, Are they staying with my parents?
Basang, Soly said.
Nobody but Soly called Hero basang, not even her parents, not even Pol. She wanted to say, I’m not your girl. Instead she said,
Give me the number in Bantay.
Manong Pol might not even be there anymore, Soly rushed to say. They were only staying there until Pol heard back from Lorma Medical—
Give me the number, Hero said. Please.
Nimang, they won’t tell you anything. If they hear your voice they’ll put the phone down. It was probably the most honest thing Soly had ever told Hero about her parents.
Rosalyn came back down to sit in the chair in front of her, mouthed, Everything good? Hero nodded once, curt, and returned her attention to the phone.
Tita Soly, she said. At least let me call to thank him for paying for the surgery.
Soly didn’t say anything for so long Hero thought she might have hung up the phone in shock, and Hero was about to say, Hello, are you still there, when Soly started speaking again, the words pouring out in a flood, harsh and helpless,
He made me promise never to tell you, he made me promise to tell you that it was your parents, he made me swear on my life. But I wanted to tell you the truth, basang, I wanted to, pakawanendak—
She trailed off into sobs. Then they were silent on the phone, expensive seconds ticking away. Hero heard only the sound of her own breathing, as slow and dry and yearning as a death rattle. She couldn’t think of anything to say. There wasn’t anything to say. Except one thing. Give me the number, Hero said for the last time.
* * *
So who’s that, Rosalyn asked, peering down at the number Hero had written down with the Sharpie Rosalyn had scrambled for when Hero had mouthed, Pen, pen, as Soly finally agreed to give Hero the number.
My parents, Hero said.
Rosalyn stared down at the numbers, then dragged her eyes, wide, up to Hero. When’s the last time you spoke to them?
Nineteen seventy-six, Hero said, rubbing at her eyelid. And I’m not going to speak to them. I’m going to disguise my voice. They probably won’t recognize me.
And if they do?
Then they’ll hang up. Hero looked down at the number, picked up the phone again, then found that her fingers weren’t working, she couldn’t press the buttons, and the numbers were starting to swim together. She placed the phone back on the receiver, then lowered her head to the lip of the table and let out a breath.
Shit, take a minute, Rosalyn said.
That’s what I’m doing, Hero said, irritable and grateful for the irritation.
Rosalyn was looking out into the garage. The music was less curated than it usually was, just the radio tuned to Wild 107.7, at the mercy of the evening DJs. Gani hadn’t brought any of his equipment, and he wasn’t anywhere near as performative as Ruben, who jumped at the chance to spin at anybody’s party, brought his equipment with him as a rule. Gani was playing pusoy dos with Rochelle, Jaime, and Maricris’s boyfriend, from the sound of it—Hero couldn’t remember the boyfriend’s name, until, Bernardo, she could.
Still looking out at the garage, Rosalyn said: I’ll do it.
Hero wasn’t going to let that inanity hang in the air any longer than it had to. No, she said. I’m doing it. She picked her head up again, reached for the phone.
Rosalyn pressed down on the hook, insinuated her head between Hero and the phone.
Listen. They don’t know my voice. I’ll put on an accent. I can say I’m a friend of Pol’s or something. Heard he was in town, dadadadada. They’ll give me the phone.
First of all, Hero said, even though she didn’t have a first of all yet.
Rosalyn grinned, sly, like Hero didn’t know by now what her heartbroken face and all its hiding places looked like. What, you don’t wanna introduce me to your parents yet or something—
I don’t ever want to introduce you to them.
Don’t think
by being sweet to me you’re gonna change my mind.
Hero huffed, at the end of her rope, and Rosalyn leaned forward, her face hardening. Okay, enough now. Phone.
He’s waiting for a job offer from a hospital in San Fernando he used to teach at, Hero said when Rosalyn had pried the phone from her weakening fingers and started dialing the number on the phone card. Lorma Medical Center. You can use that.
Rosalyn made a shushing gesture.
Hero waited, folding her hands underneath her thighs to keep from fidgeting with them, her head down, gaze aimed at the floor. Someone answered the phone, Hero could hear the voice from the receiver end of the phone against Rosalyn’s ear. A man, but not Hamin. Not Lulay. Someone Hero didn’t know.
Rosalyn, to Hero’s shock, put an impeccable manilenya accent on her English, sounding remarkably like an upper-middle-class doktora who’d moved to La Union for work and never bothered to learn Ilocano, spoke English to her children and only allowed them to go to the ritzier resort beaches, not the local ones, then sent them abroad for college.
Aysus, Hero thought. She’s fucking good.
Hello, this is Doktora Cruz, calling from Lorma Medical Center. May I please speak to Pol? Pol De Vera?
Apolonio, Hero muttered to the floor. Apolonio De Vera, Rosalyn finished smoothly, still in character.
Hero heard Rosalyn get put on hold by the servant, looking for Pol. Perhaps Hero could have made the call herself; she should have remembered that it would be rare for Hamin or Concepcion to ever pick up their own phone. She heard the servant come back on the line, ask for Rosalyn’s name again.
Doktora Adela Cruz, calling from Lorma Medical Center, Rosalyn repeated, tone-perfect, somewhere between flirtatious and haughty.
Hero heard the servant’s voice repeat the name to someone next to the phone, then heard the person repeat the name to himself. She hadn’t heard the voice in years. It hadn’t changed. She’d recognize it in her sleep, on her death bed, in the next world, as a ghost.
America Is Not the Heart Page 41
